


To pave new ways, to return to old harbors

by yu_gin



Series: Across the sea, under the same sky [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, mentions of islamophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin
Summary: They reach the car and jump inside. While sitting on the back seats, Yusuf reaches out his hand and takes Nicolò’s, squeezing his fingers softly, his personal way to say: “everything will be alright”. Then he lets his gaze wander outside of the window, admiring the streets that are still so familiar to him and, while still holding his boyfriend’s hand, he thinks: “I’m home”.This is the story of Yusuf and Nicolò's first trip to Tunisia as a couple.This is the story of how things can change in one year.This is the story of how things can get better.Sequel of "And a wall between us"
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, mention of past Joe/OMC
Series: Across the sea, under the same sky [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003065
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	To pave new ways, to return to old harbors

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third part of the series "Across the sea, under the same sky".  
> I strongly recommend reading at least the first part ("And a wall between us") of this series, while the second part can be skipped (but it's juicy smut, so why would you skip it?)

**To pave new ways, to return to old harbors**

**2014 - August**

When they ask Nicolò the reason for his visit, he hesitates. The man who is holding his document raises his eyes from his passport, waiting for an answer. It’s not a difficult question. His first instinct is to answer: “Family”. But he and Yusuf have discussed it and agreed on a version. So, he nods and answers:

«Holidays.»

The man puts the stamp, gives him back his passport, and lets him pass, without further investigation. After all, in the eyes of that man, he is only another European tourist. He takes his luggage and finds Yusuf, waiting for him.

«All’s good?» he asks and Nicolò nods, with a tired smile. He has never liked airplanes and even less airports.

«All’s good. Shall we go?» He feels Yusuf’s hand on his back, as he leads him outside of the airport through the halls. It’s a small, casual gesture, invisible for the passersby that rush towards the exit. Nicolò would like to lean against his hand and let himself go in one of Yusuf’s warm hugs but he knows that it is not the time or place.

«My parents are already here, waiting for us at the exit.»

«They didn’t have to. We could have taken a bus.»

«You tell my mom,» he says, rolling his eyes. Nicolò stiffens for a moment and bites his lips. Yusuf notices it and laughs: «Relax, they will love you.»

They finally reach the exit and Nicolò notices Yusuf’s face lighting up as he spots an old couple standing in front of the exit, clearly waiting for someone. He waves and the couple smiles, waving back. As soon as they reach them, the woman hugs Yusuf tightly, murmuring something in Arabic. When she finally loosens the hug, it’s the man’s turn to hug Yusuf. Nicolò smiles warmly and notices that the woman is looking at him.

Yusuf notices as well and clears his voice, saying solemnly: «Mama, baba, this is Nicolò.»

«As-salaam ‘Alaykum,» he says, still uncertain on the pronunciation. He rehearsed those words so many times in front of the mirror, especially in the last week, enough to make Yusuf nauseous.

The woman brings her hand close to her heart and says: «Wa ‘Alaykum salaam. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nicolò.» She speaks English with a mild accent, pleasant to the ears. Nicolò stares speechlessly at her intense dark eyes, her elegant nose holding a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, her brown hair, fixed in a long braid that laid on her shoulder.

 _Well, now it’s clear who he took after_ , he thinks, mesmerized by the beauty of the woman in front of him.

«Nice to meet you, Mrs. al-Kaysani.»

She laughs: «Oh, please, call me Zeimira.»

Then he turns to the man who is reaching out his hand: «Nicolò, beautiful name: “the victorious”, “conquerer of people”,» he rambles, shaking his hand vigorously. After receiving a scolding look from his son, he clears his voice and says: «I’m Ibrahim, Yusuf’s father. I am very happy to finally meet you in person, after having heard about you for months.»

On second thought, Ibrahim looks probably closer to his sixties, as his gray hair suggests. His face is crossed by deep wrinkles that give his smile even more expressivity. He can imagine that man sitting in his studio, smoking his pipe while marking the exams of his students.

Nicolò blushes: «Thank you for welcoming me to your house.»

«We are happy to have you here with us and we don’t want you to spend your two weeks in a dirty hotel,» says Zeimira. Ibrahim insists on taking one of their suitcases, no matter how much Nicolò protests.

«He’s very stubborn,» says Yusuf. «More than you. Plus, he likes to pretend to be young again.»

Nicolò smiles, shyly. «How did I go?» he asks.

«Splendidly,» he murmurs. If they were in London, Yusuf would have leaned for a kiss, but he stops and simply brushes his shoulder. «Are you more relaxed now?»

«I still have two weeks to mess things up,» he says, and Yusuf rolls his eyes.

«Everything will be fine, I promise. And when it will be time for you to leave, they will love you as their son.»

They reach the car and jump inside. While sitting on the back seats, Yusuf reaches out his hand and takes Nicolò’s, squeezing his fingers softly, his personal way to say: “everything will be alright”. Then he lets his gaze wander outside of the window, admiring the streets that are still so familiar to him and, while still holding his boyfriend’s hand, he thinks: “I’m home”.

**2015 - August**

As soon as he rings the bell, he hears the rushed steps of someone racing towards the door and, one second later, the door opens, revealing the smiling figure of Zeimira.

She immediately hugs Yusuf, kissing his face and caressing his cheeks. Then, she turns to Nicolò and she reaches out, inviting him to get closer. She takes his face into her warm hands and kisses his cheeks, before looking at him in the eyes:

«Nicolò, it’s always a pleasure to see you.»

He smiles back: «Thank you, Zeimira. It’s a pleasure to be back.»

She lets them in, and they find Ibrahim leaving his studio to greet them. «Ha, there you are,» he exclaims, walking in their direction.

He kisses his son and stares at his face, shaking his head: «Every time you come back you are paler and paler. Do you ever get to see the sun in London?»

«Rarely,» he admits. «Which is why I miss home so much.»

«Only for the sun, uh?» he comments, sarcastically. Then he turns to Nicolò and smiles: «You two work too much.»

«Not during these two weeks. Our only plan is to relax and enjoy» he says.

Ibrahim smiles and says: «Will you follow me? I have something for you,» he says, leading him to his studio. He takes the book laying on his desk and hands it to him. «I found it during a visit to my favorite book shop and I thought of you. I didn’t want to send it by mail, so I kept it for two months, waiting for you.»

Nicolò takes the book from his hands, passing his finger on the spine and reading the title in Arabic: « _Augustine of Hippo. An Algerine perspective._ »

«Yusuf told me that your Arabic has improved a lot in the past year, so I hope you will be able to read it. I thought it could be useful. Consider it a graduation gift,» he says.

He stares at the book, skimming the pages and admiring the neat Arabic characters printed in an elegant font. He smiles and nods: «Thank you for thinking of me. I also have something for you,» he says, opening his backpack. He hands him a small package that he opens carefully.

«Ha, Montale,» he murmurs, admiring the front page.

«You mentioned that you wanted to read some Italian poetry and this poet is from my region, and I thought you might like it. I’m sorry, it’s not a valuable edition like the one you gave me but-»

«Nonsense, it is a beautiful present. I will try to read it, even though, as I told you, my Italian is a little rusty.» He leaves the book on the desk and looks at him: «I think Zeimira prepared some tea. You must be tired from the flight.»

Ibrahim places a hand on his shoulder, an affectionate gesture that for a second catches Nicolò off guard, but then he nods and says:

«I would love some tea.»

Ibrahim leads him to the kitchen, where Yusuf is complaining to his mother in Arabic. Nicolò still struggles with catching the words Yusuf says when he speaks too fast but, as soon as he joins them, Yusuf starts speaking slower before Nicolò even asks him to.

He timidly joins the conversation, answering the questions that Zeimira asks him and commenting on some of Yusuf’s. As he drinks from the cup of the old tea set, he feels at home.

**2014**

Nicolò sits at the table while Yusuf and his parents finish setting the dinner. He tries to stand up to help at least three times, but Zeimira always pushes him back to his chair, saying that guests are supposed to relax and enjoy.

Nicolò shifts on his chair, tapping his foot nervously. He is not used to sitting and letting other people cook, it is beyond him to “relax and enjoy” when people around him just run around the kitchen. Growing up, he has always helped his mom and when he moved, first to Rome and then to London, he has always cooked his own meals. Even when Yusuf offers to cook for him, he always ends up helping him in some ways, no matter how much Yusuf insists.

«Are you sure I can’t-»

«Nico,» says Yusuf, giving him a scolding look.

Ibrahim sits first and soon Yusuf and Zeimira follow him. Nicolò stares at all the mouth-watering food in front of him, not sure what to taste first. Zeimira helps him, offering some brik. As he takes one, he can’t help thinking about the first time Yusuf cooked them, back in March, and he looks at him smiling.

«So, Nicolò, Yusuf told us that you study Philosophy and that you are already working on your thesis. What is it about?»

«I’m doing my thesis on Augustine of Hippo, with a particular focus on his role as the father of the Patristics.»

«That is a very specific subject. Where does this interest come from?»

Nicolò bites his lips: «I think it started as a teen when we studied him at school. At the time I was still close to the Church, as my whole family was, and I found him fascinating. Then… well, my vision of the world changed but I’ve always found comfort in the study of Philosophy. So, when it was time to choose what to do after high school, the choice has been easy.»

«You studied in Rome, right?» asks Zeimira, serving him some couscous.

«I did» he confirms. He smiles, thinking about his years in Rome. «I liked my time there. I’ve always lived in a small village and sure, I went to high school in Genova, which is a big city, but nothing compared to Rome. Rome was a brand-new world and to be far from home for the first time was-» _Thrilling? Inebriating? Liberating? Like being able to breathe for the first time in my life?_ «-nice.»

«And what did you like the most about the city?»

Nicolò stares blankly for a moment, trying to think of anything apart from “gay sex”. «The museums,» he answers sharply, avoiding their gaze.

«Oh, interesting» murmurs Zeimira, puzzled. «And why did you move to London?»

«I did six months of Erasmus in London during my last year. I liked the experience and after graduation, I decided to move there for the Master. I managed to get a scholarship and I left.»

«I see. Your parents must be so proud of you,» she says, smiling.

Nicolò lowers his gaze, staring at his plate. «Mh, yeah,» he murmurs, taking a mouthful of couscous. He feels Yusuf’s foot touching his under the table and he raises his gaze to look at him. «I mean, they surely are, in their own way,» too bitterly to sound completely sincere. A tense silence falls between them and Nicolò regrets using that tone. He clears his voice and says: «Yusuf told me that you both teach at University.»

Ibrahim and Zeimira stare at each other and Ibrahim nods: «I teach Arabic literature at the Faculty of Human and Social Science of the University of Tunis, with a particular focus on the poetry of the Nahda movement.»

«And I’ve been teaching Architecture in the last years, but before that, I taught Art in high school and I worked in a studio, here in Tunis,» she adds.

«Now I can see where Yusuf took his passion for Art and Poetry» he comments, smiling.

«He did. I can still remember him sitting on my lap while I was drawing and him trying to steal my charcoal,» she laughs, while Yusuf blushes. «But it was soon clear that he was way more talented than me, especially with freehand drawing,» she says, pinching his cheek, despite Yusuf’s protests. «Isn’t it, hayati?»

«He is,» confirms Ibrahim. «You didn’t tell us, what do your parents do?»

«They own a small food shop in my village,» he says, while Yusuf hands him the tajine. He hesitates before saying: «Yeah, that’s it.» He realizes too late that he killed the conversation. Again. He starts panicking, fixing his gaze on his plate and avoiding looking at the others.

Yusuf rescues him, by saying: «Nicolò used to help them in the shop as a kid, together with his brothers and sisters. He comes from a big family, and for them, food has always been an important part of their life. This is why Nicolò is an amazing cook.»

«You cook well?» asks Ibrahim, delighted.

«Nothing special, I just-»

«Don’t listen to him, he is amazing. Maybe one of these days you could prepare your famous pesto, would you?»

Nicolò smiles, grateful. «I would love to.»

«Did you learn to cook from your mother?» asks Zeimira.

«From her, and from my grandma. She was the one who taught me to prepare the pesto. She was very proud of it, made only with the basil from her garden. It took me years to get even close to her level, but I can say that I would pass her test now.» He smiles, warmly, finally at ease.

«She sounds lovely.»

«She was,» he says. «She was… she was the first person to see some good in me and she always pushed me to study and to get an education and to move from my small village and to be different and–» He stops for a moment. «I’m sorry, I got carried away.»

«Oh no, don’t worry. What else did she teach you to cook?»

Nicolò starts talking, at first still shyly, still worried about oversharing or getting carried away with his stories. But slowly, all the tension and the stress melt away and before he realizes it, he is leaning against the chair and answering the questions without overthinking about the implications. By the end of the dinner, when Zeimira stands up and takes his plate, he feels like part of his worries are gone.

And when Yusuf offers to do the dishes, he says: «Can I help?»

«You don’t have to, you are a-»

« _Per favore,_ » he says. «Let me do something. Like at home.»

Yusuf nods and makes room for him in front of the sink. As Yusuf cleans the dishes, he hands them to Nicolò to rinse and put back on the drainer.

«So, how was dinner?»

«Fine. I’m afraid I spent the first half of the dinner killing the conversation every time your parents tried to be polite.»

«It’s okay. You handled it pretty well,» he says, placing a kiss on his temple, and Nicolò giggled. But then Yusuf notices the melancholic look in his eyes and adds: «What?»

«Nothing.»

«Nico…» he murmurs, with a scolding look. The kind of look Nicolò cannot resist.

«They are… amazing. They are so clever and brilliant and your father… I talked to him about my studies in these hours more than I did in my entire life with my family. And your mother? She is amazing and beautiful. The story of her education, her fights for women’s rights, and now she’s a University professor and she’s what? Fifty? How can I impress them? How can I make them think I am enough for you?»

«Nicolò,» he moans, «how many times do I have to tell you: you don’t need to impress them. I am the one choosing you, their opinion doesn’t matter.»

«It does. Because your family is very important to you. You love them and you respect their opinion, as you should. So yes, their opinion matters, and I want them to like me. I want these amazing people to like me.» He bites his lips. «Is it pathetic?»

«It’s not pathetic. It’s sweet. And I guarantee that they already like you. You are kind and clever and as soon as my mom will taste your pesto, she will fall in love with you.»

«So, are you saying that I should conquer them with food?»

«As you did with me.»

Nicolò smiles, curiously. «What was it, the lasagna? The pesto? The tiramisu?» and every time Yusuf shakes his head. Then Nicolò laughs and asks: «It was the tajine, wasn’t it?»

«It was the tajine,» he says. And for a moment, they are back in their apartment in London, in their small and crowded kitchen, washing dishes together on a weeknight, careless about the rest of the world.

**2015**

«I can’t believe you did it,» murmurs Zeimira, as she watches Nicolò opening the suitcase, with a proud smile on his lips.

«Mama, don’t encourage him! He’s already too proud of his food-dealing activities,» says Yusuf, pointing at his boyfriend, who is extracting from the suitcase what looks like half a kilo of Parmigiano. «Now all of his shirts are going to smell like cheese.»

«I promised them an authentic pesto and they are going to have an authentic pesto,» declares Nicolò. Zeimira and Ibrahim laugh loudly, while Yusuf tries to threaten him with charges of illegal importation of Italian cheese. «Will you help me?»

Yusuf snorts but replies: «Of course.» He has prepared the pesto so many times with Nicolò that he knows the recipe by heart. He takes the Parmigiano from his boyfriend’s hands and grabs the cheese grater from the counter.

He can feel his mother’s eyes on his back, as she leans against the kitchen door, with a smug smile on her face.

«What?» he asks, sharply.

«Nothing. I’m just amazed by the sight of my son willingly cooking, without being forced to do it.»

«That is unfair! I often cook!» he complains. «Nico, tell her!»

Nicolò laughs while washing the basil leaves. «You do, but it’s either pasta or brik.»

Yusuf lets a loud gasp, deeply offended: «Liar! I even prepared a risotto for you!»

«One time! And it was only for-» Nicolò stops before declaring in front of his future mother-in-law that the risotto was Yusuf’s way of setting the mood before having sex. «Anyway,» he says, clearing his voice, «do I have to remind you of that time you burned the tomato sauce?»

«It was one time! And you said you weren’t angry at me.»

«I wasn’t. I was too in love with you to be angry,» he says, casually, while drying the basil leaves on a towel. Yusuf stops grating the cheese and stares at him, while Nicolò starts smashing the leaves and the pine nuts together in the mortar with a pestle. After several seconds he must notice Yusuf’s intense look because he turns to him and asks: «What?»

Yusuf smiles and shakes his head: «Nothing.» _I love you so much. I love you beyond my understanding of this word. I love you more than I thought it was possible. Beyond measure and reason._

When lunch is ready, Zeimira and Ibrahim sit at the table while Yusuf and Nicolò serve the meal, before sitting with them.

«Yusuf wasn’t lying about your pesto,» says Ibrahim. «Make sure you teach us how to prepare it, or we’ll have to invite you more often than what you are willing to come.»

«You know it’s always a pleasure for me to come here, but I’ll make sure to leave you the recipe, as well as the Parmigiano. I didn’t manage to import the Fiore Sardo as well, but next time I will try,» he promises, while Yusuf rolls his eyes next to him.

«Well, if the doctorate doesn’t work out, you can always start an import-export of food across the Mediterranean Sea.»

«The doctorate?» asks Zeimira.

Nicolò lowers his gaze, embarrassed. «I got a grant for a Ph.D. in Paris.»

«Nicolò, it’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell us?»

«I still have to decide if I want to accept it,» he says, quietly, stuffing his mouth with pasta, to avoid further questions.

«Why not? I thought you were enthusiast about the subject of your research,» says Ibrahim.

«I don’t know if I want to stay in academia. I don’t know if I’m good enough to continue this kind of career and I don’t want to spend years in the University jumping from a grant to another. I think… I think I want some stability.»

«I see,» murmurs Ibrahim. «The academic life is not easy, and we know it very well, don’t we, my dear?» he says, looking at his wife.

«We do. I’m sure that you will eventually make your decision, but if you feel like talking about it, we will gladly help,» she says.

Nicolò nods and smiles: «Thank you.»

Yusuf looks at him. In that year and a half together, he has learned to recognize Nicolò’s micro-expressions, conveyed through his jaw or the rapid movement of his eyes or the sudden stiffness of his body. He has learned to recognize when he’s lying and when he’s hiding something. But he has also learned to give him time, because he knows that, eventually, Nicolò will open to him.

In the meanwhile, he can only wait.

**2014**

Nicolò feels the grip of Yusuf’s arms around his body loosening slowly, a clear sign that he has fallen asleep. He turns his head, catching the shapes of his face in the darkness of the room. He has to resist the impulse to kiss those lips because he doesn’t want to wake him up, as he is sleeping so peacefully.

He slowly slips out of the bed and, without turning the lights on, he rummages through his luggage, his hands seeking the package that they know way too well. He finds it carefully hidden in his underwear and picks it up.

He walks silently to the kitchen and opens the window of the small terrace. Then he turns on the stove, lighting the cigarette. He hesitates, staring at it. He hasn’t smoked a single cigarette since he and Yusuf got together. Not even one, not even during the week of the exams.

He knows that Yusuf doesn’t like the smell of smoke, but that’s not the only reason why he is trying to quit. That is only an excuse. The real reason is that he started smoking as a coping mechanism and now that he is trying to get his life together, he wants to get rid of it as well.

«I thought I heard some noises in the kitchen,» says a voice, making Nicolò jump.

He turns quickly to face the door, recognizing Ibrahim’s face. The cigarette falls from his fingers on his naked feet, and he has to bite his tongue to hold himself from swearing.

«I- I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to-»

Ibrahim raises his hand, showing him the pipe. «I won’t tell Yusuf if you won’t tell my wife.»

Nicolò sighs in relief and picks the cigarette from the ground. «Deal.»

Ibrahim leans against the railing of the balcony. Nicolò steps closer and gives a long look at the sleeping city. From far away, he can hear the sound of the sea. Then, Ibrahim stares at Nicolò, who is still holding the cigarette between his fingers, without daring to bring it to his mouth.

«Something is holding you back?» he asks.

«I’m trying to quit. I thought I managed to get rid of this bad habit but sometimes, when I’m nervous or stressed, it comes back.»

«I hope we are not the cause of your stress,» says Ibrahim.

Nicolò blushes and avoids his gaze. «I didn’t mean to- I don’t- I-»

«I’m clearly causing you stress right now,» he says, laughing. «I can understand. Meeting the parents is never easy, you are always afraid of saying the wrong thing. But I can guarantee you that you are well accepted here if it can help.»

«It does,» he admits. «But there’s more. I… I can’t stop thinking about my family. I will meet them in two weeks, and I haven’t seen them since last winter and… don’t get me wrong, I love them, but sometimes they are too much.»

«Is Yusuf coming with you?» he asks.

«Not this time. I can’t ask him to deal with them when I cannot spend a week with them without getting a massive headache.»

Ibrahim nods and murmurs: «Sounds familiar to me.» At Nicolò’s puzzled look, he adds: «My parents didn’t like Zeimira at first. Well, I think my mother would still disapprove her, if she were alive.»

Nicolò looks at him, incredulous. «Seriously? She seems-»

«Like the most intelligent, beautiful, sweetest woman in the world? I agree, but she has never been… how can I say, conventional. She was raised very progressive, she has studied in Europe, she has always worked, while my mother wanted for me a good wife to raise many children and take care of the house. She always blamed her because we only had one child, despite the fact that this only child of mine came up pretty well, don’t you think?» He winks and Nicolò smiles: he couldn’t agree more.

«How did you deal with it?»

«It wasn’t easy. Zeimira had to deal with my mother’s criticisms, always comparing her to my brother’s wife. I tried to defend her, but it was too much, and I ended up moving away from my parents. I also doubt they would have approved Yusuf’s life.»

«The fact is that… I see the kind of relationship that my parents have with my brothers and sisters-in-law. My siblings always visit them, they have dinner together, they spend the holidays together. My nieces and nephews are growing in a big and loving family and I- I wonder: why can’t I have all of this? Why can’t I have what my siblings have, just because I am what I am? Why do I have to fight and to struggle to be accepted? Why does it have to be so difficult?» He stops and stares at the city, shaking his head. «I’m sorry for the rant. I’m just- I would like them to love him as much as I do.»

«Maybe they just need some time,» he says. «But if you are willing to accept my advice, which comes from my personal experience, don’t wait for them to change. My wife has taught me that we cannot wait for the change to happen, we have to make it happen. We have to shape the world we want to live in. It won’t be easy, and some days you will think it’s not worth it, and that’s okay, you are allowed to get some rest. But I promise you, it _is_ worth it. Not only for you, or for Yusuf, but for everyone who will come after you.»

Nicolò stares at him, speechless. Then he nods and puts out the cigarette, still unsmoked, against the railing of the balcony. He looks at the silent houses, the quiet streets and if he squints his eyes, he can almost spot the sea, a dark mass of water murmuring endlessly. The night breeze makes him shiver for a second.

«It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?» asks Ibrahim, looking at his Tunis.

«It is» he agrees. «It makes me think that there are still things in this world that are worth fighting for.»

They don’t need to add a word. They go back to their bedroom and try to catch some sleep.

**2015**

«I thought I heard some noises in the kitchen.»

The voice makes Nicolò turns quickly and he easily recognizes the figure that enters the kitchen. «Zeimira, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up.»

«You didn’t wake me up. I just needed a glass of water» she says. He leans against the railing of the balcony, staring at the sleeping Tunis. «What is it keeping you awake? I hope my son doesn’t snore as his father, in which case I’m very sorry for you.»

Nicolò laughs quietly and shakes his head. Yusuf sometimes becomes a little too clingy during the night, making it difficult for him to catch some sleep, especially during summer. But his mother doesn’t need to know about their sleeping habit. «The snoring genes haven’t shown yet, apparently.»

She comes closer and smiles: «If only I could read your thoughts behind those blue eyes.»

Nicolò lowers his eyes, avoiding her gaze. He knows that that woman can read him too well. «It’s nothing.»

«Can I take a guess?» she asks, and when he nods, she immediately says: «Is it about the doctorate?»

He sighs, defeated. «Is it so evident?»

«Well, I would have expected more enthusiasm from the guy who, last year, spent an entire afternoon discussing his thesis with my husband. It’s a great opportunity and Paris is a beautiful city.»

At the moment Zeimira pronounces the word “Paris”, Nicolò twitches.

«I see,» says Zeimira. «So, the problem is not the doctorate, it’s the city.»

«I don’t know if I want to move again, and my French is not so good. And Paris is expensive-»

«More than London?» she asks. «You are a worse liar than my son, and that’s something because Yusuf is a terrible liar. What is the deal with Paris?»

«That Paris is not London.» And after a few seconds of silence, he finally admits: «And Yusuf is in London.»

«Does he know he is the reason why you don’t want to accept the position?» she asks.

He hesitates before admitting: «No. Because he would tell me to accept the position.»

«Of course he would. It is a great opportunity for you, and besides, I know for sure that Yusuf loves Paris, and he might like the idea of moving there. Have you discussed it with him?»

«We did, already last year. We discussed moving to France to look for a job and he started looking around as well. We did the same with other cities in Europe, but Paris seemed the best option. And then he became less and less enthusiastic and we stopped talking about it. And I didn’t ask because I thought that I didn’t have a chance to win the position, but now I’m here. And I have to make a decision.»

«I see,» she murmurs, and for a second, Nicolò has the impression that she knows more than she wants to say. He is about to ask when she adds: «What does your family think about it?»

He shrugs: «They don’t know, yet. I don’t think they really care if I keep living in London or if I move to Paris. They never showed particular interest in my career and every time I mention some important decisions, they just say: “Do what you think is right” and dismiss me.»

«Have you thought that maybe it’s their way of letting you know that they trust you and your choices?»

Nicolò stares at her, puzzled. «I think it’s more like they can’t really understand. After all, what would they know?»

She laughs bitterly. «Forgive me, I might be wrong, but I’m under the impression that you are blaming your parents for their lack of university education?»

«I- I’m not _blaming_ them, it’s just… a fact. My dad never finished high school and my mom barely finished it. None of my siblings studied at University and they never shared any interest with me. Whenever I talk about my studies, they listen absently and then they change the subject.»

«I don’t know your parents or your siblings, besides the few stories that you told us. And maybe I misunderstood. In this case, I hope you will forgive me. You rarely talk about your family, despite the fact that Yusuf told me they are really important to you. So, sometimes I wonder if it’s because you are embarrassed by them.»

Nicolò doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks for him. He hesitates for some seconds and then he murmurs: «I’m not embarrassed. I know about all the sacrifices that they had to do to give us a good education, I know how much they worked and how much they still help my brothers and sisters. And me too, even if in different ways, even if sometimes I struggle to admit it. But every time I try to find a connection with them, every time I want to share some parts of my life, I find a wall in front of me, and I realize that they don’t understand me. Sometimes they try, they make an effort, but most of the times they simply give up.»

She nods and, instinctively, she brings a hand to his face, cupping it behind his head. For a second, Nicolò holds his breath and thinks of his mother, and suddenly his heart aches and he feels like the scared teenager he used to be. «I’m sorry, I can’t help thinking about your mother. If she misses you only half of how much I miss my son, then she cares about you more than you think. You know, my parents didn’t have the opportunity to study. They worked their whole lives in order to give me and my brother the opportunity to have an education. And when I told my parents that I wanted to study abroad, they didn’t approve of my decision, they couldn’t understand why I wanted to move, to see different places, to meet different people. In the end, they let me leave, but they never understood my reasons. And for years I despised my parents, thinking that they were ignorant, but in the end, I realized that I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them. And maybe they never understood me, and they still don’t approve many of my choices, but they love me no matter what.»

Nicolò sighs deeply and then says: «Sometimes I wish loving them was easier.»

«Families are rarely easy.»

«You make it look like it is,» he says, laughing. «Yusuf loves you and respects you very much and I can see why.»

«We also had our faults,» she admits. «When Yusuf decided to leave for London, we were worried. He had never lived on his own before and he was…well, he was barely surviving alone. He didn’t know how to cook, how to clean dishes, how to wash his clothes. We have always given the priority to his education and never thought about teaching him how to survive in this world. He could quote by heart all the Arabic poets and but wouldn’t be able to prepare a soup.»

This time Nicolò laughs wholeheartedly, holding his stomach, and Zeimira smiles. «My son is a talented artist and a clever man, but he lives in another world and he is not very practical, and this is partially our fault. We raised him in a safe environment because we wanted him to be happy and serene so that he could dedicate his energies to his art and his studies. But in this way, I’m afraid we didn’t prepare him for this world, and sometimes I’m afraid he will have to face things that are bigger than him and we won’t be there to protect him.»

«Yusuf is the strongest and bravest person that I know,» says Nicolò. «And I might not be able to always protect him and sometimes he might have to face things that I cannot understand, but as long as he wants me by his side, I will be there for him.»

«I know. And I’m happy to know he has you.»

They hear some steps approaching and they face the door of the kitchen, just in time to see a very sleepy Yusuf appearing. He stares at them, puzzled: «Are you having a party?»

«We are complaining about the al-Kaysani men,» says Zeimira, winking at Nicolò.

«Ah, it’s a conspiracy,» says Yusuf, walking to Nicolò and resting his chin on his shoulder, staring at the sleeping city. «I woke up and you weren’t there,» he says in Italian. «I don’t like it when you are not there.»

« _Sono qui,_ » he murmurs, passing a hand through his curls. «Tomorrow we could go to visit the Medina.»

«Again? We visited it last year» says Yusuf.

«Indulge me, would you, my dear?»

«Of course,» he says. «Now, would you come back to sleep? I feel lonely without you,» he pouts and Nicolò thinks that he will never be able to resist that smile.

When they turn, Zeimira has disappeared, her glass left on the table as a reminder of the conversation they just had. Nicolò thinks about her words and looks at Yusuf’s face, so close to his.

_I wish I could protect you from everything and everyone, but I can barely protect you from myself, from the mistakes I will make, for all the times I will do wrong. And I hope you will choose me again, even when you see me at my lowest point, even when you discover my darkest corners, my sharpest edges, my deepest secrets. I hope you will choose me again and again._

Yusuf takes his hand and pulls him, without rushing. He simply leads him back to his bedroom and Nicolò follows him, leaving the kitchen silent and the city asleep.

**2014**

«The Al-Zaytuna Mosque is the oldest mosque of the city of Tunis. Located at the center of the Medina, it covers an area of five thousand squares meters. It is also hosted one of the greatest universities in the history of Islam» says Yusuf. Nicolò raises his head, admiring the intricated geometrical decorations and the complex architecture of the building.

«What does Al-Zaytuna stands for? Is it a person?»

«It means “Mosque of Olive”, actually» explains Yusuf, patiently. «One legend says that it was built on an ancient place of worship where there was an olive, hence the name. But this is only a legend. The most accepted explanation is that it got his name from the presence of the tomb of Saint Olivia, a-»

«Ah, Sant’Olivia da Palermo, born in the 5th century in Sicily, died in Tunis. Well, she’s not an official saint, she’s more of a popular saint,» he murmurs, nodding.

Yusuf laughs quietly: «You really are a hagiography nerd, aren’t you?»

«Says the pot to the kettle,» he replies. «Is there something you don’t know about Tunis?»

«You have met my father. I’ve lived with that man for twenty years, of course I know everything about my city.» He bites his lips and says: «I hope I wasn’t boring. Sometimes I get carried away.»

Nicolò shakes his head, smiling: «Yusuf, you are the best guide I could ask for. And I’m glad to be here with you.» He touches his arm, only a quick gesture, but for them, it’s enough.

«Are you hungry?» he asks. «Would you like to taste some authentic cuisine?»

«More authentic than your mother’s?»

«No, just less healthy,» he replies.

«Let’s try some less healthy cuisine,» he says, leading him outside of the interior courtyard. Once outside, they are invested by the endless flux of tourists and the noise of yelling sellers who try to attract more buyers.

«How about we move from the more touristic places? I know many good restaurants in the souk, the real heart of the Medina.»

«I would love to,» he agrees.

Walking around the streets of his city with Nicolò by his side is an experience that Yusuf cannot describe. The sight of Nicolò staring admired at the monuments fills his heart with pride. He could easily spot the other European and American tourists, wandering helplessly around the streets with their oversized backpacks and their noisy colorful t-shirt. Nicolò, instead, easily blends in with his white linen shirt and his beige trousers, and his relaxed attitude. After a few days, he gained enough confidence to start using the rudimental Arabic that Yusuf taught him in the past months, switching to French whenever he was missing a word. His pronunciation is still faulty, but Yusuf is proud of his improvements.

They reach a small restaurant and sit at a table. The owner brings them a menu that is only in Arabic, a clear sign that they left the touristic part of the city. They end up taking a tajine and a kafteji to share, as well as a large amount of brik.

Yusuf is about to give the first bit to his brik when he hears a familiar voice calling him. He turns and faces a pretty woman in her twenties.

«Aisha,» he calls her, with a big smile. Only then he notices the older woman behind her. «Fatima, it’s a pleasure to see both of you.»

«We heard that you study in London now,» says Aisha.

«I do. I came back for the holidays to visit my parents.» He realizes that the two women are staring at Nicolò, studying him. Yusuf peeks at him and then says: «He’s Nicolò, he is-»

«I’m a friend from London. Well, actually, I study in London, like Yusuf, but I’m Italian. I’m here as a tourist and Yusuf’s family has been so kind to host me.» Yusuf sighs in relief. He hates the idea of lying about his and Nicolò’s relationship, but at the same time, he is not ready to deal with the backlash of such a revelation.

«Nice to meet you,» they say, politely. Then Aisha asks: «How’s London?»

«It’s cold and noisy and the weather is shitty, but I like it. It’s full of life and-» … _and I met the love of my life in the least expected way…_ «-and people there are interesting.»

«Well, I hope there isn’t any British girl who keeps you away from your city for longer than it is necessary,» says Fatima, gaining an angry look from Aisha.

Yusuf laughs, nervously. «No British girl, I promise,» he says.

«Good, Tunisian women are way better,» she adds.

«Mom!» protests Aisha, rolling his eyes.

«What? It’s true! Yusuf here is a clever guy, I’m sure he knows. I remember when you used to come to our house so often. You can come to visit, if you want. I will make some tea and-»

«Mom!» Aisha looks distressed as she drags her mom away. They talk for a minute, then the woman parts from them and Aisha comes back, shaking her head. «Yusuf, I’m sorry. My mom is… too much, sometimes.»

«Don’t worry, Aisha, I will take that as a compliment» he says with a warm smile.

She nods, thankful. «I missed having you around, even before you left for London.»

«Oh» murmurs Yusuf. «I’ve missed you and your family as well. Your parents have always been kind to me.» Then he hesitates and he gives a quick look at Nicolò, who looks back at him, puzzled. There is a silent question, in Yusuf’s eyes, but it’s so deep and so craved in the past that Nicolò cannot read it. He turns back to Aisha and asks: «How’s Kamal?»

«Ah. So, you don’t know.»

«What?»

Aisha lowers his eyes. «I’m sorry, I thought your parents told you. Everybody knew, it has been a bad moment for my family, my father hasn’t really recovered from it, even if nine months have passed.»

«Aisha, what happened?» he asks, his heart racing in his chest, already fearing for the worst scenario.

«Someone saw him with a man, in a car» she murmurs, weighing her words. «When they told my father, he nearly had a stroke. Kamal ran away with this man, a German researcher who was working at the University. They live in Berlin now. This is everything I know because my parents refuse to speak with him, and I don’t know how to contact him.» She pronounces the last words on the verge of tears. «I thought you knew about him, about what he was. I thought that was the reason why you stopped being friends.»

Yusuf is suddenly shaken by a shiver and he feels his head going numb. He leans against the table, holding himself and he feels his heart beating in his throat. And suddenly all of his memories come back to him, like a river that drags him away and he thinks about Kamal’s smile, that last night they spent together, he thinks about the words he never said, the secret he carried with him. He turns, seeking Nicolò’s eyes, and he finds them. He feels the need to reach him and hug him and sink his face on the crook of his neck and let him carry him away. But he cannot, he knows he can’t. He breathes heavily and he says: «It wasn’t the reason why I stopped coming to your house. I never- I never hated your brother, Aisha.» _I loved him so much. I loved him as deeply, as fondly, as my young heart was able to._

Aisha looks at him, puzzled, then her eyes jump behind him and land on Nicolò. Then she looks back at Yusuf, and again at Nicolò. Her lips draw a ‘O’, but no sound leaves them. She nods, finally understanding, and for a second Yusuf is afraid that she is going to shout at him, to call him names, making a scene in front of everyone. But she simply says: «It was nice to see you again, Yusuf.» She is about to leave, but she adds: «If Kamal contacts you, for any reason, could you…?»

«I will let you know, Aisha,» he says.

«Thank you, Yusuf, you are a good man. My brother was lucky to be your friend,» she says, and then she leaves, joining her mother, who is waiting for her just outside of the restaurant.

Once alone, Yusuf looks at Nicolò, who is taking a bite of tajine, trying to hide his curiosity. «I owe you an explanation,» says Yusuf.

«You owe me nothing,» he replies, and his voice is calm and gentle, like a purr. «But I’ll be here when you are ready to talk.»

Yusuf reaches for his hand and brushes his fingers in a rapid gesture. Then he takes his fork and he goes back to his meal.

They spend the afternoon in Dream City, the contemporary art gallery where Yusuf hopes to expose his art, one day, and his enthusiasm is almost overwhelming. Yusuf apologizes profusely every time he realizes that he has been talking no-stop for more than five minutes but every time Nicolò shakes his head and says:

«I would listen to you for hours,» as he watches his boyfriend in admiration.

Yusuf smiles at him, but at the same time, he feels guilty because he knows that his endless flow of words is covering his real thoughts. And Nicolò, who knows him deeply, must know as well, but he never questions him. He leaves him the time he needs to digest the new information he received, and he joins him in his enthusiastic tour of the exposition.

They leave the gallery at six and Yusuf suggests making one last stop before dinner. The café is still open, and they climb together the steep stairs until they reach the terrace on the roof. The view in front of them is worth all the steps they had to climb. Nicolò stares at the landscape of Tunis, blinded by the sun, already low on the horizon. Yusuf, instead, stares at him, his face kissed by the warm light of the summer sun, his hair caressed by a gentle breeze, and he thinks _this is the man I love_.

They sit at the table and sip in silence their mint tea. His glass is empty when Yusuf finds the courage to speak.

«I’ve never told you about Kamal,» he says. He looks around, checking the few regulars that are still drinking their tea and enjoying the evening.

«He is the brother of the girl we met this morning, if I understood correctly. You were speaking quite fast,» says Nicolò, calmly.

«Yes, but he was so much more, for me,» he says, switching to Italian. Nicolò has learned that whenever Yusuf wants to talk about something that is more personal, he would switch to another language than English or, in these last days, Arabic. «He was my first… well, we might call him a boyfriend, even though we never formalized our relationship.»

«How did you meet?» In Nicolò’s voice, there is no anger or jealousy. He’s genuinely curious about Yusuf’s past.

«I’ve known him since high school, but we got closer during the first year of University. I spent months wondering if he reciprocated my feelings, too scared to make the first step, terrified of being outed and blamed. But then one night he kissed me and my heart, oh, my heart was filled with a joy I never thought I could handle. We began a sort of relationship, keeping it a secret. Nobody knew about us, not my parents, and certainly not his. He was… he was very important to me, I won’t deny it. He was my first in many senses.»

Nicolò nods and takes another small sip of his tea, waiting for Yusuf to continue.

«One night, when my parents were away, we met at my house. It was the first time for both of us and it was messy and complicated, as first times often are, but overall, it was good, at least for me. He left before my parents came back. It was the last time I saw him.»

He sees Nicolò contracting his jaw and then his eyes become sad, as he moves his hand to reach his. «Yusuf, I’m sorry.»

«He left me with a message, saying he couldn’t do it anymore. And I spent years thinking I did something wrong and blaming myself for losing him.»

«It wasn’t your fault, Yusuf. He was… he was probably young and scared, but I’m sure he never blamed you.»

«I know. Or, at least, part of me knows it. Part of me accepted that we met at the wrong time, that he wasn’t ready and maybe I wasn’t as well. But now that I heard about his story, about what happened to him…I can’t help but think: what if it was us? What if he never went away and I stayed here? What if it was us in that car, what if I had to run away from my family and my city?» He takes a breath and continues: «Am I a bad person for still thinking about him while I am here with you?»

Nicolò shakes his head: «Yusuf, your past shaped the person you are today. You are the person I fell in love with, in London, because you met him, because you were with him, because you went through those experiences. He was an important person for you, and I don’t want to erase this part of you. I would never ask you to.»

«Do you ever think about him?» asks Yusuf. He doesn’t need to say his name, Nicolò knows exactly who he is talking about.

«Sometimes, when I call my parents or my sisters and brothers. Or whenever someone mentions his name, or any version of his name in any language. Or when someone mentions Milan, which was our dream.» Nicolò sighs and says: «These ghosts will keep hunting us, but one day they won’t scare us anymore. One day I will be able to pronounce his name without feeling my legs trembling, and I know that that day you will be by my side. And I hope it will be the same for you.»

«What did I do to deserve you?» he asks, with a half-laugh that dies in his throat, as he holds his tears.

«You are a good man, Yusuf. You deserve the world.»

As the sun begins to sink on the horizon, coloring the roofs with the warm tones of the sunset, the shadows of the buildings grow, covering the city, stretching their dark fingers along the narrow streets of the Medina. But they are too high, too bright for darkness to reach them.

**2015**

The sun is long gone, and the night breeze has taken his place. Nicolò shivers in his t-shirt and Yusuf resists the temptation to hug him and hold him tight, as he did during their first winter in London together.

«Do you want to go back?» he asks, but Nicolò shakes his head.

«I want to stay a little bit longer,» he says.

They hold their flip-flops on opposite hands, and from time to time their fingers brush against each other, in a casual gesture that, in the night, goes unnoticed. Yusuf enjoys the feeling of the cold sand under his feet, especially when a wave less shy than the others reaches his toes.

He closes his eyes and thinks of his childhood and his youth, when he used to spend his summers at the sea, swimming and playing football with his friends, happy and careless. He smiles thinking about his old friends, but the bitterness of those memories soon takes his heart.

He hasn’t spoken to them in years, especially after he left for London. Since he started dating Nicolò, he hasn’t come back home often, and even when he did, he was not alone. He thought about organizing a meeting, a dinner, or even just an afternoon at the beach, where he could bring Nicolò with him. But how would he introduce him? As his friend? His roommate? Would they still accept him if they knew the truth?

_Is it like this? Will I have to keep choosing between my past and my future? Will I keep losing touch with my friends and my country, too afraid of how they would react if they knew about me?_

He looks at Nicolò, who is staring at the stars above them, and he wonders which thoughts are in his mind. There are nights when London suddenly feels too much and he wishes to pack his luggage and fly back home, sink in his bed, and wake up with the sound of seagulls and the smell of the sea. There are nights when he misses his family, his friends, his old life so much that he wants to cry. But then he feels Nicolò’s warm body next to him, he smells his familiar, comforting scent, the soothing sound of his regular breath when he sleeps. Usually, that is enough to make him sleep.

Sometimes he stares at his quiet boyfriend and wonders: will he always be enough? But it’s only a moment, a single instant of despair, soon replaced by the warm feeling that Nicolò’s smile inspires in him.

He stops walking and it takes Nicolò some second to notice, and when he does, he looks at him puzzled, walking back to reach him. Yusuf is staring at the sea and Nicolò does as well, squinting his eyes.

Yusuf reads his thoughts and says: «Sicily is too far from here, you cannot see it.»

Nicolò pouts and asks: «This direction?» pointing at the unsettling darkness of the Mediterranean sea at night.

Yusuf stands beside him and touches his arm, moving it slightly to the left: «There, more or less.» He rests his chin on his shoulder for a second, breathing his scent, and thinks: _tonight, when we are alone in my room._

«And Genova?»

He moves his arm more on the left: «There.» He looks at Nicolò’s expression and, even in darkness, he can see his eyes shining and his lips bending in a melancholic smile. «Do you miss home?»

He shrugs and says: «A little. We are going to be there in a few days, anyway.»

Yusuf nods. He looks back at the city behind him and suddenly he realizes where he is, and his heart leaps in his chest.

Nicolò notices his moment of dismay and asks: «What?»

Yusuf shakes his head: «It’s nothing.»

«Yusuf,» he murmurs softly.

«I just realized,» he says. «This is the place of my first kiss.»

Nicolò has a moment of surprise and then asks: «It must be a sweet memory.»

«More like bittersweet» he admits. «It makes me think.»

«Of what?»

«Of all the things that happened since then. Of how much I changed. Of how the world has changed.»

«And it will keep changing,» says Nicolò. «Things will get better and better.»

«But how long will it take? How long will I have to wait? How many people like us will have to go through years of fear and sadness, how many will have to choose between what they are and what society wants them to be? How long, Nico?»

Nicolò sighs and says: «I don’t know, Yusuf.»

«I’m tired, Nico, I’m tired of hiding, I’m tired of walking the streets of my city, of my _home_ without being able to hold your hand, without being able to kiss you and tell the world what you are for me.» He takes a breath and says: «I think I understand why Kamal kissed me at night, I understand why he didn’t talk to me before leaving, why he ran away, and I don’t blame him. We tell ourselves we need to be strong, to be brave, to resist, but sometimes it’s too much, it’s too much also for me. Sometimes I just want to rest and leave this shitty world behind.»

He looks at the sea, closing his eyes and letting its gentle murmur lulling him.

«It’s okay, Yusuf. You don’t have to always be brave.»

«I know. I know, but I want to be. I want to be brave and strong and I want things to change, and I want to see them changing in front of my eyes, I want to die in a world that is different from the one I was born in.»

He gives a quick look at the beach, empty and silent, and then he grabs Nicolò’s face with his hands and pulls him into a hungry, desperate kiss. His lips, dried by the sun and the salty water, taste like the sea. He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against his, breathing his same air.

«This is a promise, Nicolò. One day I will kiss you in this same place, but not at night, not when the beach is empty and only the sea can witness us. I will kiss you under the sun, when everybody can see us, when the whole world can see how much I love you.»

_Until then I will love you like this, as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

«I will wait,» says Nicolò, breathless, so close that his eyelashes brush against Yusuf’s cheekbone, so dearly that Yusuf believes it.

**2014**

Yusuf hears the gentle knock at his door and raises his eyes from his sketchbook. Zeimira appears behind the door.

«Hey, already at work?»

«Mh,» murmurs Yusuf absently, going back to his sketchbook. Zeimira enters the room and places a glass of tea on his desk. She looks around and the room now seems so empty without Nicolò’s huge suitcase occupying the floor.

«Did he text you?»

«Not yet. He should land in thirty minutes or so.»

She sits on his bed. «I will miss having him around.»

Yusuf nods again, without really contributing to the conversation.

His mother insists: «You are allowed to be sad.»

«Why should I? He is going to visit his family and we will meet again in a week in London. It’s not like this is the end of the world.»

«I didn’t say it is.»

Yusuf looks at his sketches, a study on hands that covers two pages of his book. He stares at those hands and he realizes how familiar they are. _It’s him. It’s always him, since the day I met him._

«It’s good for us to stay apart for a bit. We are always together. It’s okay, really. It’s okay.» He closes his book with a sharp movement and turns to his mother. «Why do I miss him so much?»

«Because you are in love.»

«But why does it hurt so much? It’s okay now because we live together, we spend most of our time together, we do everything together. And when we are apart it is never for more than a day or two. But what will happen when we finish University? What will happen if we end up in different cities or different countries or different continents?»

«You will make things work,» he says.

«And what if things don’t work out? What if we break up?» he says. «We have been dating for five months, mama. Five months! Someone would call it merely “a flirt”. So why can’t I bear the idea of a life without him?»

He’s not looking for an answer, not really. But sometimes his feelings for Nicolò scare him. They are both young and their lives are still uncertain. They are both in their first, real relationship and Yusuf can’t help but wonder if they are ready for such a commitment. He grew fond of Nicolò so deeply and so quickly that he cannot explain it. His mind tells him that it’s wrong, that they should slow down, that they will eventually hurt each other, but his heart doesn’t know any other way to love him.

«Habibi, you think too much,» she says. «If we knew how love works, where would it be the magic, the mystery, that feeling of vertigo that takes your heart.»

He moves from his chair to his bed, sitting beside his mother. «Was it like this for you, when you first met baba?» he asks.

She shakes her head, gently. «Not like this. Not less, just different. But I am not you and he is not your father, you are two completely different people, living in a different time and different place. Every story is different, which is why we never learn from our mistakes, which is why we keep falling in love over and over.»

Yusuf leans against his mother and she holds him against his shoulder, brushing her fingers through his hair. Yusuf closes his eyes and thinks of when he was a child and his mother used to lull him to sleep, her gentle hand brushing through his hair, her body solid and warm.

«It scares me,» he admits. «It scares me how much I love him. He’s not only a boyfriend for me. In a few months, he has become my best friend and a dear companion, he is the person I seek when I feel lost, the one that consoles me when I’m in despair.»

_And when I kiss him, my body shivers, like the first time our lips touched, that night on our old couch. And when we lay together, when I see his body, when I touch his skin and he touches mine and for a moment we become one, in that moment I think that there is some good in this world and that I found it in this man._

«You have a big heart, habibi,» she says. «Not everyone is blessed by this kind of gift. You have been feeling in these months what some people won’t experience in their entire life. So, even if it’s painful, even if now it feels like a curse, be thankful. I can’t guarantee you that your relationship will last forever, or that you will love him the same, or that he will love you back, but what you are feeling, here and now, these moments will be yours forever. And you will be a different, a better person, because of how you loved.»

At that moment, Yusuf’s phone goes off, catching their attention.

Zeimira smiles: «I think he landed.» Yusuf looks at her and she tilts the head in the direction of the desk: «Go, answers him.»

He reaches his desk and takes his phone. There is a message from Nicolò. Few words, no emoticon, excessive use of punctuation, and some endearing terms. Yusuf smiles dearly: that’s very Nicolò-like. He turns in the direction of his mother and she understands and stands up.

«Mama,» he calls her, while she’s already at the door. «Thank you.»

She closes the door behind her, while he’s already elsewhere.

**2015**

The smell of tobacco and dust greets him like an old friend. His father is at his desk, as he expected, marking the exams of some poor students under the bright light of the summer afternoon. His heart aches a little as he witnesses the years weighing on his father’s shoulders, his hair greyer than the year before, his reading glasses thicker.

«Oh, Yusuf,» he murmurs when he notices him. «Where is Nicolò?»

«He’s in the kitchen with mama. She said that French cinema is better than Italian cinema and she will never see the end of it. Before I left, they were discussing Pasolini.»

«Should I go and save her?» he asks.

«I think she can handle it.» He sits on the chair in front of his father. «So, you said you wanted to talk to me.»

«Indeed. Your mother received an interesting phone call, yesterday. Do you remember Nasira, mama’s friend who owns that gallery in Paris?»

Yusuf stiffens, trying to hide his discomfort, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. And it is immediately clear to him that his father knows the answer to his own question.

«I wanted to call her back.»

«You don’t owe us an explanation, but your mother and I were…concerned. Nasira is offering you your dream job in a beautiful city where you were already considering moving, and you are not calling her back immediately? I really can’t understand. Is it for Nicolò? You seem to love that boy very fondly, and if I’m wrong, well, I think you should tell him because he’s seriously considering not accepting that grant in Paris for you.»

«No,» shouts Yusuf. «No, he must accept that grant, I told him! It’s such a great opportunity for him, he cannot miss it.»

«I agree with you. However, despite how much your mother and I love him, he is not our son. You are. So, I’m asking you: what do you want to do? Because if you contacted Nasira for that job, it means that you wanted it, and then something made you change your mind. So, if it’s not because of Nicolò, why did you change your mind?»

«It’s not Nicolò,» he says. «I love him so much and I can’t bear the idea of living apart.»

«So, what is it?»

«It’s Paris,» he finally admits. «Paris is the problem.»

«I thought you liked Paris.»

«I did, before. But after what happened in January in Paris… I don’t know, baba. I’ve seen how people treat me on the metro or on the streets. When Nicolò and I speak Arabic, they insult us…well, they insult _me_ , telling me to speak English. They don’t insult us when we speak Italian. And in Paris, it’s even worse. There is a Moroccan woman who owns a small shop near our apartment and her son lives in Paris; she told me how worried she is for him, how they treat him on the metro, on the streets, wherever he goes.»

«I understand your concern, but what are you planning to do? Stay in London? Come back here?»

«I don’t know, okay?» he shouts, frustrated. «I moved to London because I wanted to be myself, not to hide again, only for another reason. What will I have to do to live in peace? Change my name and surname and my passport? Forget my language, my culture, my religion? And then what, shave my hair and my beard, change the color of my skin? When will it be enough? When will the world accept who I am?»

His father removes his reading glasses, resting them on his desk, and massaged his forehead before asking: «Do you know why we only came one time to visit you in London, in these two years?»

«Because you hate flying,» he says.

«That is a very convenient lie. I used to love traveling, but now I don’t anymore. Part of me thinks it’s because I’m older. It’s another lie. The truth is that I’m tired of all the controls, of being treated like a criminal every time that I want to take a plane. Your mother is braver and stronger than I am, and so are you. This is why I won’t tell you to be brave, I won’t tell you that you have to fight back. If you are tired, you know that here in Tunis there will always be a place for you. If it’s too much, your mother and I will be here for you and we will never question your choices.»

«Why do I feel a “but” is coming?»

«However,» he continues «I, once again, ask you: what do you want?»

He’s not even hesitating. He knows what he wants because he has been thinking about it for months. «I want Paris. I want that job. I want Nicolò. I want that life. I want to be happy.»

«So, you know very well what you want. Being scared is normal and legit, and there will be times when you feel alone, and you want to give up. And if it is too much for you, if you really are done, you can come back here, and I would never think any less of you. But don’t give up before even trying. Don’t let them win.»

The sound of loud laughs reaches them from the kitchen, interrupting their moment. Yusuf looks back at his father who says: «Apparently they are done fighting. I wonder who won.»

Yusuf laughs, thinking of his mother and Nicolò sitting at the kitchen table, bickering about European cinema. It reminds him of their discussions that usually happen on the couch, when Yusuf makes a statement and Nicolò looks at him as if he said something sacrilegious, like that time he said that Chaucer was better than Boccaccio, only to witness his incredulous face (he took back the statement in between the laughs). And then he thinks of the Friday nights when they fall asleep on the couch watching a movie, both too tired to stay awake. And when Nicolò wears that ridiculous bandana while they clean their apartment, and he looks like an old grandma. And when Nicolò lays beside him in bed, when he kisses the skin of his back,

He smiles and thinks of the year and half that they have spent together, of how many fond memories he has collected.

_I want more. I want more time with him. I want more moments like these, I want more Sunday mornings and Friday evenings and slow and lazy Saturday afternoons. I want more nights with him, I want to get lost in his body again and again and again, until I know him by heart, until my skin is shaped like his. I want more time, years, decades, even centuries. I want more, and I don’t want to choose anymore._

«Before you go,» says his father «I want to give you something.» He opens one of the drawers of his desk and extracts a book that he places in front of Yusuf. «For you, to keep you company in your new adventure.»

Yusuf takes the book in his hands and holds his breath: «Baba, I can’t. This is your copy, this-»

«I’ve been planning to give it to you for years. I was only waiting for the right moment to come.»

Yusuf caresses the spine of the old book and opens it carefully. He looks at the numerous notes left by his father during the years at the margin of the page, with his elegant handwriting. He knows how much his students would pay for that copy, he knows how important it is for his father. Which is why he brings it to his heart and holds it carefully.

«I’ve always wanted this copy of Abu Nuwas’s collection of poems, but I thought I would have had to wait for many years.»

«It is yours now. And if you feel lonely and you miss your mama and baba, you can always browse this book and think of us,» he says, cleaning his classes. «Or you can call us, I’d like that too.»

«I will.»

At that moment of his life, he feels as if he was on the edge of a steep cliff, the roaring sea hauling below his feet and the wind pushing him back. He can see the storm coming and the grey clouds creeping into the sky. He cannot know if he will be able to see the end of his journey, if his boat will be strong enough to endure the waves, to cross the sea, to lead him to unpaved paths, to unexplored lands. But now he knows that he will always have a safe harbor where he can dock his boat. He will always have a home to come back to.

With this in his mind, the sea appears clearer and he fears no more.

**2013**

Yusuf stares at the city from the car window, barely blinking. He wants to memorize every street, every house, every single detail of Tunis. He wishes his father drove slower, he wishes the airport was farther, he wishes he had more time.

He had noted that day on his calendar and stared at it every day for the whole summer. Most of the days, he looked forward to leaving for London, excited at the idea of starting a new life, making new friends, experiencing a new world. But as summer was about to finish, he started feeling more anxious at the idea of parting from his family.

When his father stops the car in the parking lot of the airport, he gives a deep sigh. His mother, from the passenger seat, turns to face him with a warm smile. She brushes his cheek and says: «Are you worried?»

«No,» he lies. «Just tired.»

She looks at him, not fully convinced, but then his father calls them and they both leave the car. His father offers to bring his heavy suitcase, but he insists. His parents have always protected him, always helped him, probably too much, and now he has to learn to deal on his own. The sooner he starts, the better it is.

«Do you need anything? Do you have enough pounds? We can change some others before-»

«Baba,» he protests. «I have enough money to survive _a week_ , and I remind you that they have ATMs in London.»

«Do you have all the documents? Are they in a safe place? You don’t want to lose them-»

«Mama,» he sighs. «Stop worrying, I swear I’ll be fine.»

«Let us worry, it’s our job,» she says.

He looks at the time on his phone and says: «Okay, I’ll go.»

«Okay, one last hug,» says his father, wrapping his arms around him. Yusuf breathes the smell of tobacco from his father’s coat, printing that specific scent in his mind, already missing it.

Then it is his mother’s turn. She tightens her arms around his neck and Yusuf realizes how small and fragile that strong and brave woman is, how light she feels in his arms, like a doll. He breathes her perfume, the same fragrance of roses that she has been using her whole life. «Call us as soon as you land. Promise it.»

«I promise,» he murmurs, softly.

Then he reaches the controls and, as he passes the metal detector, he gives one last look at his parents, standing in the hall, becoming smaller and smaller as he walks away.

The following hours he waits at the terminal, unable to read, to draw, to do anything, too anxious about his flight. And when they finally announce the boarding, he grabs his backpack, ready to get on the plane.

_It’s a new beginning, Yusuf. Everything will change. You won’t have to hide anymore, you can finally have the life you have been dreaming of._

He sits next to the window and stares at the airport, trying to ignore the other passengers bickering about their luggage and backpacks, shouting at each other in different languages. When the plane finally takes off, he holds his breath, as acceleration pushes him against his seat. He looks again at his city, the roofs of Tunis becoming smaller and smaller, like his parents at the airport.

He closes his eyes, trying not to think about it. And then the sea appears below him, as familiar as an old friend, bright and shining.

_I wonder what is waiting for me, on the other side of the sea. A new city, new experiences, new friends. Who knows, maybe a new love._

Yusuf smiles and relaxes against his seat. He closes his eyes and dreams of his new life, of the endless possibilities that this new beginning is offering him.

And for the first time in years, his heart is light and full of hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not tunisian, nor MENA, nor I've ever been to Tunis. I took all the information from the internet, but the internet is not flawless, so if you spot some mistakes, please let me know. I'm always willing to learn.
> 
> In this fanfic, I tried to deal with subjects that are bigger than me, in particular in the last part.  
> The fact Yusuf is referring to is the Charlie Hebdo shooting of January 2015, which was followed by a backlash of islamophobia, especially in France. Before writing that part, I read some articles and reports like [ this](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jan/08/muslims-fear-backlash-charlie-hebdo-grenades-islamic-france) and [ this](https://www.oic-oci.org/page/?p_id=182&p_ref=61&lan=en) (8th report). If you have any other suggestions, please let me know!
> 
> For the few bits in Arabic, I took them from  here . All the information about Tunis comes from either wikipedia, some youtube videos or directly from google maps.
> 
> Writing this fanfiction, I realized how much this story means to me. Sometimes I feel like the characters are drifting away from the canon, and this scares me a bit, but at the same time, I'm curious to see where they will drive me.  
> I'm already writing the sequel to this, set right after the end of the 2015 timeline, when Yusuf and Nicolò fly to Italy to meet Nicolò's family. So, get ready to meet the big and nosy di Genova family.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this! Happy new year :)


End file.
